


Shoot At the Sky

by yaskween



Category: Bridgerton (TV)
Genre: BISEXUALITY IS REAL, Canon-adjacent, Episode Tag, F/M, I just wanted to write Bridgerton porn and now I am days deep into the history of the rubber eraser, M/M, Madame Delacroix’s fake accent, Multi, where are the queer Bridgertons
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:07:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28425960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yaskween/pseuds/yaskween
Summary: “If you desire the sun and the moon, all you have to do is go out and shoot at the sky,” Eloise had said on the swings. “Some of us cannot.”Benedict Bridgerton is learning, slowly, how to be himself.Queering of the canon for the fine people of the internet and featuring more drawing sessions, more sibling banter, smoking on the swings again, a visit to the club, and a masquerade ball.
Relationships: Benedict Bridgerton/Henry Granville, Benedict Bridgerton/Madame Delacroix
Comments: 71
Kudos: 305





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This show queerbaited us, so I had to go and write a whole gay episode. This has in no way been Britpicked or beta’d but you’re welcome to edit me in the comments. All Regency and Regency-adjacent nonsense is taken from the show and the internet. Many thanks to the people online who have compiled the history of such things as gay slang, molly houses, the artist's eraser, Regency titles, terms of address, and fashion. This fic is simply the result of wishing the show had done it.
> 
> ETA: Thank you so much for your kudos and comments, they really do keep me going in these incredibly dark days. Happy new year and I'm happy you're here.

Benedict Bridgerton was wide awake in the bed of Genevieve Delacroix, a fact which frankly thrilled him. He was half-naked beneath the sheets, and the realization hit him again that, if he wanted, he could reach out and touch her bare skin. No one would know. He grinned to himself, turning to look at her limned in the dim moonlight. She looked peaceful, he thought, wondering if she had finally found sleep. As if sensing his gaze upon her face, Genevieve blinked an eye open and threw him her coquettish smile.

“Monsieur Bridgerton,” she purred, sitting up. “I think it is perhaps time for you to be on your way.” She found his waistcoat in the rumpled bedclothes and tossed it at his head.

“Not yet,” Benedict whined, throwing it back so that it landed on her lap. She tutted at him and began smoothing out invisible wrinkles, tracing the golden embroidery with the pad of her forefinger.

“Such a fine waistcoat, monsieur,” she teased. “You must keep better care of it.”

He raised up on an elbow, meeting her lips in a kiss. “I can stay a bit longer, if you’ll have me.”

“You cannot,” Genevieve said firmly. “Your coachman does not deserve to sit in the cold all night.”

Benedict had quite forgotten about that. Poor Tomlinson. He took the proffered waistcoat and stood to dress himself. 

“Let me,” Genevieve offered, reaching to button his cuffs. Instinctively, he began to let her, then chuckled and pulled his wrist away.

“In spite of what you may think, I am capable,” he said gratefully, finishing the cuffs himself. “Thank you, Madame Delacroix, for your most excellent service tonight. You’ve done quite enough for me this evening.” He fastened his trousers and spun around for her inspection. “Do I look presentable?”

“A perfect gentleman,” she replied, self-consciously pulling her chemise up higher around her shoulders. “Au revoir, Bridgerton.” He loved it when she called him by his surname alone, as if they were mates from school. It felt so charmingly informal. He wrinkled his nose playfully in pretend chastisement, then kissed her and bade his farewell.

~//~

It was half past midnight when he returned to the house, and Eloise was smoking in the garden again.

“Am I allowed to ask?” She said, blowing a perfect smoke ring towards him.

“Are you allowed to hear?” Benedict jested, taking the proffered cigarette as he sat beside her on the swings. She rolled her eyes.

“You cannot sit here and smoke my tobacco without giving me something in turn, brother.”

“What does her ladyship require of me tonight?” He handed it back to her and she grabbed it with impolite haste, trying and failing to glare at him. They smoked in silence, Eloise regarding him with her most inquisitive squint.

“Tell me something scandalous,” she said finally, “Or I shall tell Mama that you’re following in Anthony’s footsteps and sneaking off to the opera.”

“You know where I’ve been,” he replied, an eyebrow raised. “You know about the modiste.”

Eloise swung her feet gently in the dirt, and for a moment Benedict saw the impertinent little girl she had been. Soon she would be of age, he realized, and then out of the house. It hurt his heart to think on it for too long; he didn’t have another ally in the family. He took a deep drag, closing his eyes with pleasure as the crisp smoke filled his senses.

“It’s not the modiste I want to know about,” Eloise said, ducking her head to avert her gaze. Benedict cocked his head at her, unsure of where the conversation was taking them. “I want to know where you’re finding inspiration for your new sketches.” She pulled a folded piece of parchment from her dressing gown and handed it to him. His stomach dropped as he opened it.

Inside was a charcoal sketch of two nudes, voluptuous women he’d sketched at Sir Henry Granville’s home the week before. Their faces were blank; he’d been focused on their posture. When he looked back up, Eloise had flushed a deep pink. “Who are they?” She asked quietly. “Is Madame Delacroix sitting for you?”

“Have you been snooping in my things?” Benedict demanded, more stunned than truly angry. “You shouldn’t have seen this, Eloise.”

“Please do not tell me what I should and should not see,” Eloise retorted, blowing her fringe away from her eyes with an unhappy sigh. “You are hardly in a position to lecture me, dear brother.” Taking advantage of his shock, she plucked the parchment from his hands and tucked it neatly away. 

Benedict opened and closed his mouth like a fish, uncertain of what he could say that would avoid hypocrisy. He thought of himself as, if not the most conventional of the Bridgerton siblings, one of the canniest, and one of the more responsible. Was it possible he had misjudged his own place in Eloise’s upbringing? Was he perhaps becoming a terrible influence on his favorite sister?

“You cannot keep that,” he scolded, trying to stay calm. “I should have burned it myself instead of leaving it somewhere it could so easily corrupt my sisters.”

“And as one of your sisters I am quite aware of what lies beneath a woman’s undergarments,” Eloise said. “Just as you are aware of what lies beneath a man’s!”

For some reason, this exclamation brought to his mind the memory of Granville and Wetherby in the former’s study, and Benedict flushed deeper than his sister. He had seen buggery before at school. He suspected his brothers had, as well. But it had never looked like _that_ , the way Granville had looked like a starving man before a feast, or a drowning man grasping a raft. At school it had always seemed serviceable, utilitarian, like a rutting dog mating with an unfortunate cushion. But in Granville’s private study it had appeared quite differently to Benedict. He could not stop ruminating on Wetherby’s thighs flickering in the firelight, and on Granville’s soft groans of pleasure as he caught Benedict’s stare. It seemed in some inarticulate way more than the sum of its parts. Benedict could understand, mechanically, what was happening, and at the same time he felt eclipsed from a greater revelation, as if he were witnessing something of profound import just beyond his understanding. He had felt the paucity of his experience most acutely in that moment, and after his conversation with Granville about it at the concert hall, he had been unmoored for days.

“What is it?” Eloise asked, and Benedict was gratified to hear a slight tone of regret in her voice.

“It is nothing,” he said quickly, and dropped the end of the cigarette to the dirt, crushing the embers with no little satisfaction. “Forgive me for retiring, but your brother is nearly six and twenty and not as young as he once was.”

“The _night_ is young,” Eloise huffed plaintively, but reluctantly followed her elder brother back indoors.

~//~


	2. Chapter 2

~//~

_ He is sketching in the parlour of Sir Granville’s. Before him is a nude youth on a fur. The figure is perfectly still, a paragon of the artist’s model, but as they shift, Benedict notices his mistake. The person before him is decidedly male, but the charcoal lines on his own sketch are feminine, with pendulous breasts and hips too wide to correctly capture the figure before him. Granville appears beside him and rakes an appraising eye over the figure, his eyes lingering on Benedict’s mortifying errors. _

_ “Not a bad attempt, Bridgerton, though it leaves something to be desired,” Granville says, clapping him fraternally on the shoulder. He leans in close to Benedict’s ear and his voice drops to a whisper. “Art is only as good as the details the artist perceives, you know.” _

_ Benedict turns to look at him, to gauge if he’s being mocked or tutored, and as his eyes meet Granville’s, he knows in an instant what’s to come. Granville presses his lips to Benedict’s, and then they are in a heated embrace. Benedict stifles a moan and Granville drops to his knees, undoing the flies of his trousers and pushing his confident hand into Benedict’s undergarments. _

In his empty room, Benedict Bridgerton awoke with a start.

~//~

Breakfast these days was changed since Daphne’s departure from the family. She had always been a stabilizing influence on her younger siblings, as staid and proper as any head of household, and in her absence the balance had noticeably shifted. Anthony rarely made an appearance, preferring his clubs or his mistresses, and Colin was now away on tour. Benedict was ill at ease being the eldest in the drawing room, and could rarely get Hyacinth and Gregory to stop their bickering. Eloise gave him a shrug across the table as a piece of plum cake landed in his teacup.

“Gregory, will you stop throwing your food at your sister?” Benedict asked, hearing the inadequacy of his own tone. He sounded pleading. Daphne would have been firm, brooking no argument, but Gregory looked insolently up at his brother and leaned across the table to fish the cake out of the tea with his fingers.

“Mama won’t know,” Gregory whined, kicking Hyacinth under the table and plopping the sopping cake into his twisted little mouth. When had he gotten so sour? Benedict wondered. What had happened to the sweet little child of last year?

“He kicked me!” Hyacinth moaned, running to Eloise and breaking into tears. “He only does it because he knows I won’t kick him back!” Eloise hugged her and petted her hair soothingly.

“I know,” she told their sister kindly. “It’s not fair.” She shot Benedict a beseeching look and mouthed  _ Get him out! _

“I…” Benedict started uncertainly, coming around the grand table to grab his little brother by the ear. “...Am sending you to your room.” Gregory groaned. “We don’t behave just because Mama might find out,” he scolded, leading him out of the drawing room and up the staircase. “We don’t refrain from throwing food and maiming our sisters just because Mama will have our ears boxed if we don’t behave ourselves.”

“Then why bother?” Gregory yelled plaintively, letting Benedict drag him to the nursery in spite of his protestations. It cowed Benedict to see how quickly his brother could be persuaded to obedience, even if his tone was defiant. “If you’re not going to tell Mama then why shouldn’t I misbehave?”

“Because… because we are gentleman,” Benedict said, completely at a loss. Their late father had given him this talk, but had missed the chance to say it to Gregory. He sat the squirming boy down on the bed and dropped his ear with a flourish. Gregory rubbed at it pathetically, though Benedict knew he had been gentle. Sometimes it was about performing the role of big brother, even when he felt like an impostor. “And that is what we do.”

~//~


	3. Chapter 3

~//~

It was still warm, but the August air had a slight chill that promised autumn would soon return. With it, the family would return to their country estate, and--not for the first time in his life--the thought made Benedict queasy. He always preferred the season in London, the density of the roads and the noisome neighbors. Worse, the city would empty as the weather grew more unpleasant, and so there would be no society to be found even if he should somehow find a way to stay when his family departed.

He bade Tomlinson good evening and hurried from the coach to the front door of Granville’s studio feeling unsettled. It was only his fourth appearance at one of Sir Granville’s decadent parties, and he had been restless all day in anticipation. He felt a queer hunger that had been unsatisfied by dinner.

Sir Henry Granville himself opened the door, and once again Benedict was surprised the Granvilles did not use a footman on nights like these to greet guests. He supposed they were aiming to avoid scandalous gossip, but it still felt thrillingly unconventional to be greeted at the door by his host.

“Good evening, Bridgerton,” Granville said with an easy smile, stepping aside to let Bridgerton pass. “I’m afraid we’re rather a smaller party this evening, I hope you don’t mind.”

As Benedict followed him into the drawing room, he noticed the difference immediately. Just as before, a soft violin played nearby, and it seemed as though every candle in the house were lit, but the halls were far emptier than on previous occasions. As Benedict took his seat at the easel Granville had set for him, he was acutely aware that the room felt larger than it had before. In the center of the lamplit circle stood a young man, not a day past twenty, who posed contrapposto beside what appeared to be a Grecian column fashioned in plaster. There were only four of them at the easels tonight, though Benedict did not recognize the other two, and he noticed that the women who had drawn alongside him on previous nights were absent. He turned to look askance at Granville, who had returned to his sketching at the easel to his left.

“It would be indecent for the ladies to study such a form,” Granville said, catching his glance and answering the question there. He gestured to the naked boy by way of explanation, and Benedict thought he spotted a smirk hovering around his lips. “Do you not think such a display improper, Bridgerton, for women of your sister’s age to observe? Without even a chaperone?” There was that jesting tone again.

“I did not realize they were ladies,” Benedict replied sheepishly, referring only to rank. In truth, because he had not recognized the women who sometimes sketched alongside him at Granville’s, he had assumed they were clerk’s or shopkeeper’s daughters, removed from the society he and Granville inhabited. Indeed, the only Lady he had observed on previous calls to the studio was Granville’s wife Lucy, and it was his presumption that that had been very much by design. Invite the wrong person, and such things would almost certainly leak to the rest of the ton, through Whistledown’s gossip or otherwise. Granville was unusual, yes, but he too had a reputation to protect.

“Well,” Granville said, setting his charcoal down again and turning to look at him, “they may not be married to gentlemen, but they are nevertheless ladies in the eyes of God, and we do like to spare them their blushes when we use certain…examples.” He gestured vaguely at the model again.

Benedict nodded and returned to his parchment. Hours fell away in silence as he tried to capture the youth’s freckled shoulders, his proud spine, the narrow curve of his hips as he shifted his weight to one foot and then the other. He was handsome, Benedict thought, and wondered if he would have even noticed the strong jaw and golden curls had he seen him on the street in normal dress. The thought made him feel guilty, as though he had somehow insulted the boy by not paying keen enough attention.

“O’Brien,” Granville said quietly to the model, keeping his voice low so as not to disturb the other artists. He walked up to the youth, keeping his hands tucked politely behind his back. “You must be tired. Do you think you might like to lie down for the final pose?” O’Brien nodded and Granville fetched a fur throw from another room. He spent a moment posing O’Brien so that he was lying atop the fur before the fireplace. As Granville stepped back, observing the effect, Benedict thought of a similar fur that had appeared in his dream and blushed violently at the memory. The model’s position as he settled was almost odalisque. 

He realized he had never seen a man posed that way, neither in person nor in any fine painting, and a curious thrill continued possessing him as he began blocking in the form on his paper. From beneath long eyelashes, O’Brien stared at something inscrutable beyond Benedict’s shoulder.

Benedict turned to the window behind him to see if he could find what O’Brien was fixating on. There was nothing out there but the damp, darkened streets. He turned back and caught O’Brien’s eyes on him. He smiled at Benedict briefly, then fixed his face back into a neutral expression. The room felt too warm, suddenly, and Benedict looked down at the state of his dress to see if there were layers he might remove. At some point during the evening he had discarded his waistcoat and rolled up his cuffs so as not to stain them with the vine charcoal, but looking down suddenly he spotted a black smear of the stuff on the front of his shirt, just above his navel. His valet would be displeased.

“Are you all right, Bridgerton?” came Granville’s warm voice from behind him, and Benedict startled from his thoughts.

“Impatient with my own lack of skill,” he said honestly, smiling half-heartedly as Granville took in his fresh drawings, rifling through the piled sketches Benedict had stacked hap-hazardly on the stool beside him. Benedict rubbed hopelessly at his stained shirt by way of distraction. “And frustrated by my dishabille.”   
  
“That nearly rhymes,” Granville noted dryly, “I didn’t know you were a poet as well.” At last he turned his eyes away from Benedict’s middling sketches and caught Benedict attempting in vain to hide the spot of charcoal. “And one in need of a clean shirt, should you need to hide the evidence of your artistic pursuits.”

“That is much appreciated but unnecessary,” Benedict said, finding as he said it that he did in fact very much wish to borrow a shirt from Granville. Why had he instinctively refused the kind offer? “My valet is already familiar with his master’s unfortunate predilection.”

“As you wish,” Granville said. Benedict chanced a glance at the other two artists in the room, neither of whom seemed interested in the conversation between the newcomer and their host. Granville turned back to his own easel.

“On second thought,” Benedict started, his mouth gone dry as he turned an idea over in his mind. “Would you be so kind as to show me to the nearest washbasin?” He affected a sheepish shrug at the ruined shirt.

Granville looked for a moment as though he hadn’t understood the question, then nodded and excused them from the room, plucking a candle to light the way as he led them to the stairs. “I’m afraid the nearest is the kitchen, but as I don’t wish to wake the servants, we shall make do with the one in my private quarters.”

Benedict paused on the step behind him. “I would not wish to intrude,” he said carefully, wondering to himself if Lady Granville or, heaven help him, Lord Wetherby were waiting for Granville in his rooms. “Especially if Lady Granville has retired for the night.” There was a part of him, he realized, that was slightly disappointed not to be receiving her attentions himself tonight.

Granville scoffed at him as he made his way carefully down the darkened corridor. “Lady Granville has her own quarters,” he reminded Benedict. “And I would hazard a guess she is well occupied at present. I assure you, you will have my room entirely to yourself.” He opened a grand door at the end of the hall. 

Inside the candles were unlit, but a small fire was still crackling in the grate. Benedict idly wondered when the servants here were allowed to retire for the evening, given their master’s penchant for late nights. At one end of the room was a canopied bed in scarlet and gold. Benedict tried not to look at it as Granville lit the lamp near the washbasin. He gave him a tight smile as the gentleman set out a fresh towel from a hidden drawer.

“Thank you,” Benedict said, stepping closer to Granville and feeling a strange sense of anticipation as he did. He could not read the expression on Granville’s face, and suspected that was the man’s intention. “For being such a kind and generous host.”

“Please use whatever you wish, Bridgerton,” Granville said, clearing his throat and averting his eyes. “And I do mean  _ whatever _ you wish.” Benedict silently willed him to look up, and he did, meeting Benedict’s crooked smile with one of his own.

“Granville--” Benedict started, then realized he had nothing to say. Granville raised his eyebrows expectantly. There was a pregnant pause. Benedict swallowed his words.

“Why don’t you remove your shirt,” Granville suggested, quietly commanding. Benedict averted his gaze and complied, shrugging out of the muslin and holding it in his hands as he awaited further instruction with lowered eyes. When he finally looked up at Granville, the older man smiled kindly at him, the corners of his eyes crinkling just as they had in his dream. He poured water into the bowl, taking the shirt from Benedict and dousing the soiled section in the tepid bath, agitating it gently. “Do you always need to be told what to do?” he asked nonchalantly.   


Benedict flushed and realized with some horror that the blush was spreading visibly down his chest. In reply, he bent his head slightly towards Granville, hoping that he wasn’t making a grave mistake. He would kiss him, he really would. He didn’t want to think things through. He wanted to feel what Granville felt with Wetherby, what he had described to him at the concert hall. He wanted to feel brave.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’ve begun to think I’ve never been certain about anything in my life. Human nature can be duplicitous. Only last week I found my pleasure in your wife, and now I mean to find it in her husband.”
> 
> “Indeed,” Granville said, “The soul is... mysterious, though the body gives evidence.” He kissed Benedict at the pulse of his neck, and all the breath left the taller man at once. “Your heart quickening now could be shame,” he kissed along Benedict’s jawline, “Or fear,” and down the column of his neck, “Or lust.” He trailed his mouth down to Benedict’s chest, to the place beneath which his heart was beating wildly, so that Benedict heard his blood rush in his ears. It sounded like the ocean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where I earn the rating.

He pressed his lips tentatively against Granville’s. He steadied himself with one hand on the mahogany table and the other at Granville’s neck, pulling him in closer. Granville didn’t immediately react, keeping still as stone, and Benedict pulled away in embarrassed confusion.

It had been nothing like kissing a woman; for one thing, Granville hadn’t responded at all. The women he had kissed in the past had always made clear their enjoyment of the experience, in one way or another. Benedict did not think of himself as a person who would use force to have his way with anyone, lady or not, and trysts of the past had usually started with kissing. Did men like Granville expect something different? Benedict did not consider himself an especially experienced lover, but he certainly expected his partner to show some reciprocity in the exercise. Granville was giving him another patient, inquisitive stare, and Benedict felt his heart sink. Perhaps he was on the wrong track.

“I-- I apologize,” he stammered. “I thought…” He hesitated, then chuckled, shaking his head in confusion as if he could clear the fog that had descended on his senses the moment they had entered Granville’s bedroom. “Am I not appealing to your sensibilities?”

Granville laughed good-naturedly, as if Benedict had told a particularly good joke. “I assure you, Bridgerton, you are quite appealing to most sensibilities, if the opinions of my wife and Lady Delacroix are to be considered.” His gaze raked down Benedict’s chest and paused momentarily at his trousers, biting his lip and meeting Benedict’s eyes once more. “I’m afraid you are _particularly_ tempting to me. But I would not wish to impose my desires on an innocent.”

“They are my desires as well.” Benedict knew his tumescence was becoming visible beneath the light wool of his summer trousers, quickened by the candor of their conversation. Could people really speak so with each other? Even in the brothel that Anthony had taken him to when he came of age, he could not recall having had quite so honest a conversation with either his brother or the madam.  
  
“Are they?” Granville arched a brow, coming closer to him. He slid a thigh between Benedict’s legs, leaning to whisper in his ear, and Benedict felt lightheaded. “Are you quite certain?”

Benedict struggled to remain standing as Granville slid a hand around his waist and pulled him closer, rubbing his thigh more insistently between them. He felt the other man’s prick rise firmly against his hip through the thin fabric of their trousers, and reached down to unfasten the buttons of Granville’s narrow fall with a hesitant hand. “I’ve begun to think I’ve never been certain about anything in my life. Human nature can be duplicitous. Only last week I found my pleasure in your wife, and now I mean to find it in her husband.”

“Indeed,” Granville said, “The soul is... mysterious, though the body gives evidence.” He kissed Benedict at the pulse of his neck, and all the breath left the taller man at once. “Your heart quickening now could be shame,” he kissed along Benedict’s jawline, “Or fear,” and down the column of his neck, “Or lust.” He trailed his mouth down to Benedict’s chest, to the place beneath which his heart was beating wildly, so that Benedict heard his blood rush in his ears. It sounded like the ocean.

“It is the last, I assure you. Oh,” Benedict gasped, unable to keep his free hand from straying to his prick as Granville set his lips against a nipple. In reply, Granville covered the hand with his own and squeezed. Benedict bit back a moan, his eyes closing with pleasure.

“Would you use that acerbic tongue of yours to tell me what it is you wish for, Bridgerton?” Granville muttered against his ear. Benedict turned to look at him with piercing clarity.

“I wish you would use my given name.”

Granville huffed another one of his shallow laughs and stepped away. “And all I wish for you, _Benedict_ ,” he said slowly, taking his time pronouncing each syllable of the name as he shucked off his braces and trousers, “Is for you to sample _all_ of what life has to offer. You must know by now I consider myself obligated to show you new horizons.” A sheen of sweat coated his forehead, and Benedict wondered at the man’s gift for self-restraint. 

“I had formed that impression,” Benedict retorted, stripping down so that he was as naked as O’Brien had been downstairs. He watched with fascination as Granville returned the favor, removing what was left of his dress and giving him a small sardonic bow in the firelight when he’d finished. Benedict went to him and dropped to his knees.

From above, he could hear Granville laugh lowly in his throat at the sight. Benedict looked up, hoping he wasn’t being toyed with. Granville shook his head wonderingly.

“Do you wish me to continue talking?” Granville asked curiously, threading his hands carefully through Benedict’s curls with delicate appreciation. “Do you like to be taught?”

“I like it when you are doing the teaching,” Benedict admitted. He swallowed around a nervous lump in his throat and bent forward to take Granville into his mouth. He had learned recently that simply affecting boldness was as good as being properly bold. Granville was shockingly hard and hot against his tongue, and Benedict’s lips stretched to accommodate his impressive girth. This was not something Benedict had done before, though he had had it done for him on innumerable occasions, and he had often wondered what it might be like from the other side. He felt himself losing focus and closed his eyes, resting his hands on the backs of Granville’s thighs to pull him closer, swallowing him down.

“That’s quite good,” Granville panted, stroking the tufts of hair around Benedict’s ears. “Are you-- are you quite sure you haven’t been practicing?”

 _Only when I dream,_ Benedict realized, deciding not to pause to answer. He suspected Granville was also fond of teaching, and that the question was rhetorical. Instead, he shook his head, the movement forcing him to stifle an uncouth choking sound. His untouched prick throbbed mercilessly between his legs and he let out a moan around Granville’s length. He’d had no idea that being on the giving end of this act would arouse him as much as being the recipient.

“You may stop at-- at anytime,” Granville uttered breathlessly, and Benedict would have laughed had his mouth not been full. Stop, now? Impossible.

He felt as if he were just becoming competent in his ministrations when Granville pulled painfully at his hair, dragging him backwards and off, and reached for the small square of linen from beside the washbasin. He held it to himself and finished extravagantly with a noise like a sob, taking a long moment to catch his breath again. When he turned to Benedict, his eyes were dry and clear. “Get on the bed.”


	5. Chapter 5

Eloise was staring at him over her teacup. Afternoon tea was a small affair today, with his mother and Anthony excusing themselves (Benedict suspected so that they could argue in private) and Gregory in bed with a cold. Hyacinth was picking at her sampler and Francesca plucked listlessly at the pianoforte. She was practising one of Daphne’s compositions, and Benedict had a flash of longing for the last time all eight of them had been under one roof. He looked again at his favorite sister, who was still glaring at him.

 _What,_ he mouthed in annoyance at his sister. Her lips pursed in frustration, as if to say, _You know very well._ But he certainly did not. Whistledown’s paper had arrived on schedule, and again there had been blessedly no revelations about the revelry held fortnightly at Granville’s studio. However the _ton_ ’s gossip acquired her preternatural knowledge, Benedict suspected she remained yet ignorant of the truly scandalous underbelly of London society into which he had recently been initiated.

He shook his head at Eloise and returned to his drawing of Hyacinth and her sampler. A cuff had dragged across the line of her dress, smearing the composition and soiling his shirt.

~//~

Benedict wished badly that he had a true confidante, a person with whom he could discuss what had happened to him this season and the gravity of his own revelations about himself. At dinner he had been uncharacteristically sullen, to the point his mother had noticed.

“Benedict,” she’d asked, in the tone of one who knows something is wrong but not what the something is, “What is it, my love? Has the fish upset your stomach? Have you caught Gregory’s chill?”

He’d smiled and shaken his head, glancing at Eloise to see her carefully avoiding looking back at him. That girl was too clever for her own good. Of course his closest friend in the family was a girl barely of age with whom he could not properly discuss anything of real import. If Eloise were married, perhaps… But he would not wish upon her a fate she dreaded so terribly, even if it would mean they could speak more openly, as adults, to one another.

In the evening he’d decided to call once again on Madame Delacroix. He hadn’t been particularly in need of her carnal abilities, but he found he wished to speak with her, to find some companionship beyond her bed. That plan had not altogether succeeded.

Instead, he’d found himself lying with her almost immediately, kissing down her bosom and trying to put his memories of the night with Granville out of mind. While he was very certain their arrangement was by no means exclusive, still he feared he had somehow been unfaithful to one of them, and as he entered her from above he was glad to bury his face in her neck and stay silent through the act.

“What is it, Bridgerton?” She asked later, stroking her hands down his side. He couldn’t face her, turned to the side, though he loved watching as her well-worn hand grazed his hip, so unlike the forever-gloved hands of ladies in the _ton_. “‘Ave I done something wrong?”

“Of course not,” he assured her, turning at last so that they were face to face. He gave her a wan little grimace. “What do you know of Sir Granville?”

Madame Delacroix looked confused. “‘E is a good man, a kind man,” she said. “Not so many men who suffer as he does can remain so pleasant while they are in such pain.”

“But does it not bother you that he is...” Benedict realized with a flush that he was not sure of the proper way to describe Granville’s preferences without resorting to the ribald language of his mates back at school. “I mean to say-- that he is unable to enjoy relations with his wife. You are friendly with Lucy Granville, does it not trouble her that her husband is…” he trailed off again, hating himself for being at a loss for words. He did not wish to offend Madame Delacroix, though he knew her sensibilities to be less delicate than those of his own.

“An indorser?” Madame Delacroix supplied helpfully. “You mean zat he is _un bougre_?” She laughed. “Monsieur Bridgerton,” she said playfully. “Why should it concern me? It is Sir Granville’s most curious tastes that brought you _à moi._ ”

He smiled his crooked smile and leaned over to kiss her nose. She pulled him into a deeper embrace. 

~//~

It was nearly a week before he caught another moment alone with Eloise. They’d both stayed late after supper following a concerto one evening, a few days before the family’s planned return to the country, and as their mother and Anthony bade them goodnight, Benedict realized he had been waiting for a chance to speak with her. He dismissed the servants.

“I know you’ve been cross with me,” he said, as they sipped at the dregs of their soup.

“And people say you aren’t clever,” she retorted, shaking her head at him. 

“Who says that?” 

“A jest, a jest,” she said, holding her hands up in defeat. “Yes, I’ve been cross with you.”

“What I don’t understand is why.” As a gesture of goodwill, he held his half-drunk port out to her to try. Her eyebrows disappeared into her fringe and she took it with no small delight, draining it immediately. He laughed and poured them another to share.

“You think I don’t know where you go at night,” she said carefully, licking her lips and pushing her soup away. “You think I’m a child barely out of leading strings, with no knowledge of the real world, and most of the time… well, most of the time I agree with you. I don’t know anything at all.”

“ _Do_ you know where I go, Eloise?” He asked quietly, afraid of the answer. After a moment, she nodded.

“I bribed Tomlinson with my pin money,” she admitted. “Not once but twice. You must know it was only because I feared for your well-being, brother.”

Benedict stared at her in amazement, unsure of if she could really know all she thought she did. “I suppose this settles once and for all that you really aren’t Lady Whistledown,” he finally said, taking a sip of port before pushing the small glass back in her direction. She sipped it more slowly this time. “Or else my secrets would have been known to everyone in the _ton_ by now.”

“I know of your affair with the modiste,” Eloise continued, ignoring his change of subject. “And I know about Sir Granville’s secret parties. Tell me, brother, does he really force you to disrobe upon entry?”

Benedict laughed. “Wherever did you get that idea?”

“Tomlinson,” Eloise said petulantly, tone turning serious. “He said that Sir Granville is a hedonist and a catamite--” Benedict stared at her in shock. “What?”

“Eloise, do you even know the meaning of those words?” Benedict asked, blushing at the idea his sister knew an inkling about these matters.

“Not entirely,” she said darkly. “But I have been meaning to ask you for weeks.”

There was silence at the table. Benedict debated whether it was worse that he was actually considering divesting Eloise of her ignorance now, or that his actions had already set them down this road. How much could she really know? How much did Tomlinson really see? It gave him no pleasure to keep Eloise in the dark, but that was what was done. One did not tell their debutante sisters that a _catamite_ meant a boy, and that Sir Granville was a man. One did not explain buggery to a lady, especially not one who had recently wondered, out loud and with no evident shame, how women came to be with child. 

“Did you find out how women come to be with child?” He asked her finally, taking a different tack.

“Yes,” Eloise said apprehensively, but with no small measure of pride. “Marina explained it to Penelope. It seemed impossible, at first, but I know it was the truth. Marina had already felt the quickening and I believe her to be the author of her own life.” She crossed her arms and scowled at him. “Marina said it is not always the case that the woman is trying for an heir, but that it is the natural outcome of specific relations between ladies and gentlemen, which she outlined in some depth to Penelope. I daresay I am unaware of some of the particulars, but I hope you will refrain from putting Madame Delacroix in such a condition.”

Benedict choked on his port. “Eloise, you mustn’t speak this way, ever, in front of Mama, or before any suitors next season. You’ll be embroiled in scandal before you’ve had the opportunity to earn it.”

She grinned at him. “I have no wish to mortify myself or our family, brother, but simply to understand what I do not. It isn’t right that such things are kept from women. Daphne herself wrote to me with no little frustration at her lack of preparation for her wedding night.”

“Did she?” Benedict asked dubiously. “That does not sound like the sort of thing our sister would consider necessary to put in writing.”

“She wrote it to Mama,” Eloise corrected. “I found the letter in Mama’s writing desk.”

Benedict shook his head in amazement. “You really are going to get yourself in trouble one of these days, Eloise.”

~//~


	6. Chapter 6

~//~

Anthony and Benedict decided to take dinner at the club a final time before the family’s planned return to their country seat. 

“Do you miss him yet?” Anthony asked with a grin as they sat at their usual table. Benedict stared at him. “Colin?”

“Oh, yes,” Benedict answered. “Of course. Just as I missed you when you were away on tour.”

“I wish I could go back and do it again,” Anthony lamented. “Do you ever regret not going?”

“I still could, couldn’t I?” Benedict asked. The truth was he had always assumed he would see the Kingdom of Naples and the Ottoman Empire, but it had never felt like the right time to leave his family for a year. And now perhaps he had grown too old.

“If you like,” Anthony said. “Though I expect to find a wife next season, and a husband for Eloise, and then the _ton_ might begin to wonder when you yourself will marry. Time is running short for gallivanting.”

“Hmm,” Benedict hummed noncommittally. “I suspect I have a few years yet. Brandy?”

Anthony nodded, and Benedict got up to avail himself of the bar at one end of the dining room. It was crowded tonight, with men both familiar and strange seated at almost every table. He was pouring the second glass when he heard a throat clear behind him

He turned to see Granville and Wetherby behind him, waiting for use of the bar. “Granville!” He said, sincerely pleased to see the painter. “Wetherby,” he gave them each a slight bow, and tried not to flush as he looked at them, unsure of whether Wetherby knew about his dalliance with Granville. When he met his eyes, Wetherby winked at him. _Mystery solved_ , Benedict thought to himself.

“Good evening, Bridgerton,” he said in turn. “Are you dining alone?”

“With my brother,” Benedict answered, relieved by the truth. He gestured to the table where Anthony sat, digging into a plate of venison with evident delight. “Would you care to join us?”

Granville smiled. “We were just on our way out,” he said regretfully. “But delighted to catch you before you leave town.”

“Yes, delighted,” Wetherby said. This was more than the man had ever said in his presence before. Benedict shifted uncomfortably. There was something about the duplicitousness of Wetherby’s courtship of Cressida Cowper that still rankled him, though he had begun to believe that Granville’s arrangement with his wife Lucy offered an example of how such a partnership could benefit both parties. Wetherby was also an unusually handsome man, and Benedict found himself making mental comparisons between them, as if they were silently competing for Granville’s attentions. 

“Why don’t you come by the studio this evening?” Granville suggested. “Lady Granville and I are having a masquerade to celebrate the end of the season and you would be more than welcome. Indeed, your presence would be most appreciated, not least by Lucy.”

“Provided you have a mask, of course,” jested Wetherby with a playful smirk. “Look for me in a Scaramouche.”

“I’m not sure I could get away,” Benedict said honestly. “Given preparations for our departure...”

“I hope you’ll reconsider,” Granville said, and there was something in his tone that made Benedict ache. He nodded and bade them farewell, returning to the table where Anthony awaited.

“Was that Sir Granville?” Anthony asked nonchalantly. Benedict nodded. “He’s looking well.”

“Very,” Benedict assented. Anthony gave him an inquisitive look. Benedict drained his brandy glass with uncharacteristic haste.

“When you marry,” Anthony said finally, setting his fork and knife down with no little care, “You shall be under less scrutiny than you are now.”

“Am I under such scrutiny?” Benedict asked, quickly losing his appetite for the venison and leeks drowning in butter on his plate. “I thought no one paid much attention to second sons.”  
  
“You might be surprised to learn that’s not entirely the case,” Anthony said. “In fact, there is a rumor that you’ve been seen visiting a molly house.”

Benedict choked on his dinner. “A molly house?” He laughed nervously. “I assure you, whomever said such a thing was mistaken.”

“I thought as much,” Anthony said. “Though I admit I did wonder if… well, never mind that. If it hasn’t made Whistledown, it likely isn’t true.”

Benedict nodded and returned to his food. “May I borrow the mask you bought in Venice?”

“Whatever for?"

“A soiree at Granville’s tonight.” 

“I wasn’t aware of our invitation.”

“He invited me just now."

“Am I to be invited as well?”  
  
“Do you wish to go?”

Anthony took a long, hard look at him. Benedict flushed and tried to hide it. “No,” Anthony said finally. “I think I should be of use to Mama tonight. The mask is yours.”

~//~


End file.
